The House of a Thousand Candles by Meredith Nicholson (read any book txt) 📕

A RED TAM-O’-SHANTER

I looked out on the bright October morning with a

renewed sense of isolation. Trees crowded about my

windows, many of them still wearing their festal colors,

scarlet and brown and gold, with the bright green of

some sulking companion standing out here and there

with startling vividness. I put on an old corduroy outing

suit and heavy shoes, ready for a tramp abroad, and

went below.

The great library seemed larger than ever when I beheld

it in the morning light. I opened one of the

French windows and stepped out on a stone terrace,

where I gained a fair view of the exterior of the house,

which proved to be a modified Tudor, with battlements

and two towers. One of the latter was only half-finished,

and to it and to other parts of the house the workmen’s

scaffolding still clung. Heaps of stone and piles of lumber

were scattered about in great disorder. The house

extended partly along the edge of a ravine, through

which a slender creek ran toward the lake. The terrace

became a broad balcony immediately outside the library,

and beneath it the water bubbled pleasantly around

heavy stone pillars. Two pretty rustic bridges spanned

the ravine, one near the front entrance, the other at the

rear. My grandfather had begun his house on a generous

plan, but, buried as it was among the trees, it suffered

from lack of perspective. However, on one side toward

the lake was a fair meadow, broken by a water-tower,

and just beyond the west dividing wall I saw a little

chapel; and still farther, in the same direction, the outlines

of the buildings of St. Agatha’s were vaguely perceptible

in another strip of woodland.

The thought of gentle nuns and school-girls as neighbors

amused me. All I asked was that they should keep

to their own side of the wall.

I heard behind me the careful step of Bates.

“Good morning, Mr. Glenarm. I trust you rested

quite well, sir.”

His figure was as austere, his tone as respectful and

colorless as by night. The morning light gave him a

pallid cast. He suffered my examination coolly enough;

his eyes were, indeed, the best thing about him.

“This is what Mr. Glenarm called the platform. I

believe it’s in Hamlet, sir.”

I laughed aloud. “Elsinore: A Platform Before the

Castle.”

“It was one of Mr. Glenarm’s little fancies, you might

call it, sir.”

“And the ghost—where does the murdered majesty of

Denmark lie by day?”

“I fear it wasn’t provided, sir! As you see, Mr. Glenarm,

the house is quite incomplete. My late master had

not carried out all his plans.”

Bates did not smile. I fancied he never smiled, and

I wondered whether John Marshall Glenarm had played

upon the man’s lack of humor. My grandfather had

been possessed of a certain grim, ironical gift at jesting,

and quite likely he had amused himself by experimenting

upon his serving man.

“You may breakfast when you like, sir,”—and thus

admonished I went into the refectory.

A newspaper lay at my plate; it was the morning’s

issue of a Chicago daily. I was, then, not wholly out of

the world, I reflected, scanning the head-lines.

“Your grandfather rarely examined the paper. Mr.

Glenarm was more particularly interested in the old

times. He wasn’t what you might call up to date—if

you will pardon the expression, sir.”

“You are quite right about that, Bates. He was a

medievalist in his sympathies.”

“Thank you for that word, sir; I’ve frequently heard

him apply it to himself. The plain omelette was a great

favorite with your grandfather. I hope it is to your liking,

sir.”

“It’s excellent, Bates. And your coffee is beyond

praise.”

“Thank you, Mr. Glenarm. One does what one can,

sir.”

He had placed me so that I faced the windows, an

attention to my comfort and safety which I appreciated.

The broken pane told the tale of the shot that had so

narrowly missed me the night before.

“I’ll repair that to-day, sir,” Bates remarked, seeing

my eyes upon the window.

“You know that I’m to spend a year on this place;

I assume that you understand the circumstances,” I

said, feeling it wise that we should understand each

other.

“Quite so, Mr. Glenarm.”

“I’m a student, you know, and all I want is to be left

alone.”

This I threw in to reassure myself rather than for

his information. It was just as well, I reflected, to assert

a little authority, even though the fellow undoubtedly

represented Pickering and received orders from

him.

“In a day or two, or as soon as I have got used to the

place, I shall settle down to work in the library. You

may give me breakfast at seven-thirty; luncheon at one-thirty

and dinner at seven.”

“Those were my late master’s hours, sir.”

“Very good. And I’ll eat anything you please, except

mutton broth, meat pie and canned strawberries.

Strawberries in tins, Bates, are not well calculated to

lift the spirit of man.”

“I quite agree with you, sir, if you will pardon my

opinion.”

“And the bills—”

“They are provided for by Mr. Pickering. He sends

me an allowance for the household expenses.”

“So you are to report to him, are you, as heretofore?”

I blew out a match with which I had lighted a cigar

and watched the smoking end intently.

“I believe that’s the idea, sir.”

It is not pleasant to be under compulsion—to feel

your freedom curtailed, to be conscious of espionage. I

rose without a word and went into the hall.

“You may like to have the keys,” said Bates, following

me. “There’s two for the gates in the outer wall

and one for the St. Agatha’s gate; they’re marked, as

you see. And here’s the hall-door key and the boat-house

key that you asked for last night.”

After an hour spent in unpacking I went out into the

grounds. I had thought it well to wire Pickering of

my arrival, and I set out for Annandale to send him a

telegram. My spirit lightened under the influences of

the crisp air and cheering sunshine. What had seemed

strange and shadowy at night was clear enough by

day.

I found the gate through which we had entered the

grounds the night before without difficulty. The stone

wall was assuredly no flimsy thing. It was built in a

thoroughly workmanlike manner, and I mentally computed

its probable cost with amazement. There were,

I reflected, much more satisfactory ways of spending

money than in building walls around Indiana forests.

But the place was mine, or as good as mine, and there

was no manner of use in quarreling with the whims of

my dead grandfather. At the expiration of a year I

could tear down the wall if I pleased; and as to the incomplete

house, that I should sell or remodel to my

liking.

On the whole, I settled into an amiable state of mind;

my perplexity over the shot of the night before was passing

away under the benign influences of blue sky and

warm sunshine. A few farm-folk passed me in the

highway and gave me good morning in the fashion of

the country, inspecting my knickerbockers at the same

time with frank disapproval. I reached the lake and

gazed out upon its quiet waters with satisfaction. At

the foot of Annandale’s main street was a dock where

several small steam-craft and a number of catboats were

being dismantled for the winter. As I passed, a man

approached the dock in a skiff, landed and tied his boat.

He started toward the village at a quick pace, but turned

and eyed me with rustic directness.

“Good morning!” I said. “Any ducks about?”

He paused, nodded and fell into step with me.

“No—not enough to pay for the trouble.”

“I’m sorry for that. I’d hoped to pick up a few.”

“I guess you’re a stranger in these parts,” he remarked,

eying me again—my knickerbockers no doubt

marking me as an alien.

“Quite so. My name is Glenarm, and I’ve just come.”

“I thought you might be him. We’ve rather been expecting

you here in the village. I’m John Morgan, caretaker

of the resorters’ houses up the lake.”

“I suppose you all knew my grandfather hereabouts.”

“Well, yes; you might say as we did, or you might

say as we didn’t. He wasn’t just the sort that you got

next to in a hurry. He kept pretty much to himself.

He built a wall there to keep us out, but he needn’t have

troubled himself. We’re not the kind around here to

meddle, and you may be sure the summer people never

bothered him.”

There was a tone of resentment in his voice, and I

hastened to say:

“I’m sure you’re mistaken about the purposes of that

wall. My grandfather was a student of architecture. It

was a hobby of his. The house and wall were in the line

of his experiments, and to please his whims. I hope the

people of the village won’t hold any hard feelings

against his memory or against me. Why, the labor there

must have been a good thing for the people hereabouts.”

“It ought to have been,” said the man gruffly; “but

that’s where the trouble comes in. He brought a lot of

queer fellows here under contract to work for him,

Italians, or Greeks, or some sort of foreigners. They

built the wall, and he had them at work inside for half

a year. He didn’t even let them out for air; and when

they finished his job he loaded ‘em on to a train one

day and hauled ‘em away.”

“That was quite like him, I’m sure,” I said, remembering

with amusement my grandfather’s secretive

ways.

“I guess he was a crank all right,” said the man conclusively.

It was evident that he did not care to establish friendly

relations with the resident of Glenarm. He was about

forty, light, with a yellow beard and pale blue eyes. He

was dressed roughly and wore a shabby soft hat.

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to assume responsibility

for him and his acts,” I remarked, piqued by the fellow’s

surliness.

We had reached the center of the village, and he left

me abruptly, crossing the street to one of the shops. I

continued on to the railway station, where I wrote and

paid for my message. The station-master inspected me

carefully as I searched my pockets for change.

“You want your telegrams delivered at the house?”

he asked.

“Yes, please,” I answered, and he turned away to

his desk of clicking instruments without looking at me

again.

It seemed wise to establish relations with the post-office,

so I made myself known to the girl who stood at

the delivery window.

“You already have a box,” she advised me. “There’s

a boy carries the mail to your house; Mr. Bates hires

him.”

Bates had himself given me this information, but the

girl seemed to find pleasure in imparting it with a certain

severity. I then bought a cake of soap at the principal

drug store and purchased a package of smoking-tobacco,

which I did not need, at a grocery.

News of my arrival had evidently reached the villagers;

I was conceited enough to imagine that my presence

was probably of interest